Greenwich, CT — In a rush to make an early morning presentation, Jim Meyers, an advertising executive with the firm BBD&G, can’t recall if he flossed. The Tostito account is my baby, he thought while running to catch his train to Manhattan, and I can’t afford to lose it over bad breath.

Fellow passengers on the Metro North commuter train to Grand Central Station seemed wary of the Connecticut man as he excused himself past passengers on the 6:40 a.m. express holding a cupped palm over his mouth. To make matters worse, he hadn’t cleaned — what his wife endearingly calls — his shit pocket in over a week. For years he’s struggled to cleanse this tiny flesh cavity at the rear of his throat known to harbor traces of repasts from as long ago as a month. Imagine not emptying your garbage pail for four weeks, he thought, then opening the lid — that’s my breath, except now it’s coming at you with a moistened flow of warm stink.

Fortunately for Jim, today’s presentation was for the new Garlic Ranch Tostitos, which he cleverly consumed with reckless abandon prior to entering the meeting with account reps from Pepsi. In an effort to show how much he loved their new product, he continued to consume the chips throughout his presentation, hoping to blame the putrescent odors emanating from his mouth on the hydrated garlic used in the Tostitos. His presumed love of the product, along with the headline, “It’s a Dip in a Chip,” bowled them over. So much so, he got first crack at their new flavor — soy ginger. Bad breath and all, Jim would go on to win a Clio for the print campaign and — as luck would have it — also win the Funyuns account for his firm.

Washington, DC — In a stunning reversal of policy, House and Senate Republicans voted today to enhance sanctuary city status to now include all members of Congress. Heretofore, if a member of Congress were stopped by police, he or she would have to hand over ID, and the press would note their party affiliation. This will no longer be required or allowed, giving members the freedom to commit a myriad of crimes and misdemeanors without consequence.

House Speaker, Paul Ryan, proclaimed the vote a major step in removing any and all accountability for House members. “It’s not like we’ll be out there pillaging the public trust fund,” he stated. “We can do that without even leaving the Capitol building.” Democrats are also on board with the new sanctuary policy for Congress, claiming elected officials should have rights not afforded its citizenry. As Senator Chuck Schumer of New York put it, “Our health plans are better, our pensions are better, we’re privy to policy changes before they hit the stock market, and we have no term limits — why the hell would we want to fuck that up.”

“You don’t like me, you like the idea of me,” she said while searching for a matching sandal.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean,” he frowned sarcastically. “I like your personality, I like your face, I like your body, I like your passion — I like you!”

“You like that I’m an independent single woman living on her own who enjoys some of the things you do: movies, cooking, sex. But do you like me? If I stripped away all the things you cherish, would you like what remained?”

“What’s left? So I should overlook the things that make you you, the things that attracted me to you in the first place, and decide, what? If I like this shell that remains. I don’t get it.”

“All the rest are fillers, fluff, the things we do to pass time. But when we have nothing, is there something?”

“Have you been reading your mom’s self-help books again? I don’t get it. What brought this on? Did I say something, or do something that triggered this?”

“It’s what you don’t say that bothers the crap out of me. You don’t penetrate me with your eyes, you look around me. You look at things and places and people, but you don’t look inside. You don’t look inside me.”

“Are you hungry? Is that what this is about? I get stuck with a customer, get here an hour late, and now I’m not penetrating you with my eyes?”

“Alright, let’s drop it. I can see you’re in no mood to delve deeper than your growling stomach,” she said wistfully while putting on her sandal.

“Me? Sounds like you’re the one who’s hangry.”

“Gino’s.”

“What?”

“Let’s-go-to-Gi-no’s,” she said as she repeated each syllable slowly.

“So, you were hungry?”

“Am hungry,” she replied.

He turned toward her, cleared the hair from her left cheek, and while penetrating her with his eyes, said “I love you.”

So there he was, faced with a dilemma millions of supermarket shoppers face every day: Do I choose the checkout line to the left, or the other two registers down to the right. The right had two more people in line, but the left had a woman with produce items that had to be weighed. Frost’s poem, “The Road Not Taken” popped into his head, and out came: Two checkout aisles diverged in the store, and I — I took the one less traveled. Done! A smile came to his face as he chose the line to his left, and that will make all the difference, he thought.

No one wants to be a checkout person. You don’t dream of it as a kid, or school yourself in the fine art of scanning. You do that job because: (a) you need the money, (b) it offers flexible hours, and (c) it’s available — end of story. So why anyone would want to give a hardworking soul like his cashier a hard time was beyond him. But there she was berating this poor woman who checked her Italian parsley as cilantro.

“It’s parsley!” the woman shouted. I’ve been cooking my entire life, you don’t think I know the difference,” again, raising her voice to the cashier. “Is there a difference in price?” she asked.

Calmly and assuredly, the cashier picked up the phone and paged the manager. Twelve years I’ve worked this store, and once or twice a year I get one of these locos, she thought. I’m Mexican, and I know cilantro when I see it and smell it, bitch! Oh, how she would love to tell her that. But she needed the money. A sick husband and caring for her granddaughter forced her to remain silent. Parsley my ass, she thought.

“Hi Rosa, how can I help?” asked the manager, making sure he avoided words like problem or dispute as he was taught in training.

“Yeah, Rick, we’re having a problem with ………”

“I’m not having any problem,” the customer blurted. “This one’s having a problem distinguishing between parsley and cilantro.”

For nine cents, it’s not worth the hassle, he thought. “Rosa, check it as parsley. Sorry mam, we should have had it marked, and I’m sorry for any inconvenience.”

There are times you just have to step up and do the right thing, whatever the cost. In this case, six minutes out of his life, and getting a Netflix DVD out in that day’s mail. A small price to pay for supermarket justice.

“Excuse me, Rick,” he said as he made his way forward on line. “I may be able to help. I had an Italian restaurant for 17 years (actually, he ate at that restaurant for 17 years till his office relocated), and I think I will be able to tell the difference.”

Before the manager could respond, he grabbed the cilantro in his right hand, placed it under his nose, and breathed in as if it were a bouquet of roses.

“I’m getting the warm smell of fajitas, and the happy sounds of mariachis. It’s cilantro, alright. Plus, you dropped this when you put it on the counter, mam.”

All eyes focused on the metal twist-tie usually found on bunched items like parsley and cilantro. A little wet, with the o slightly bent was the word cilantro. There was no dancing in the aisles, but the sense of relief between the cashier and manager was palpable.

“Forget it,” said the customer, “I’ll use the dried parsley I have home.”

Life is full of little battles, he thought, as he retook his place in line.

“Excuse me, what’s another word for thesaurus?” she asked the middle-aged man sitting at the next table.

He gave a short laugh, smiled, and shrugged. “That’s a good question. You’re kidding, right?”

“Why would I kid, I hardly know you,” she shot back. “I’m taking a writing class, and my professor wants us to avoid first-choice words in order to expand our “descriptive horizon,” as she air quotes.

“Well, it sounds like a Steven Wright routine to me,” he laughed.

“Who’s Steven Wright?” knowing the answer was probably known by anyone twice her age.

“He’s a comedian who played a lot of word games in his routine, like what’s another word for thesaurus. But he was doing it for laughs, and obviously you’re not. I’m getting coffee, would you like another of whatever you’re having?”

“I’ll take a tall chai latte.”

“Okay, one tea with milk coming up.”

As he approached the counter, he thought of the beauty and simplicity of youth. That inner drive to create and explore — to expand boundaries. Nothing fit like it should, and it didn’t have to. There was order in disorder; a freedom to let go. Where had it all gone. Why did he feel the need to give structure where there was none. In acquiring a lifetime of things, oh how it chained him from letting go. Just letting go. Or, perhaps, he was just revisiting youth through a prism of primary colors, forgetting the angst. Not remembering those sleepless nights wondering where life’s decisions would lead. Worried it was too late at 24 for change.

“Here’s your tall chai latte. Sorry I couldn’t help you with thesaurus.”

“Thanks, and I’ll be sure to look up that Wright guy on YouTube.”

“You do that. And good luck with your writing course,” he said as he toasted with his coffee. “Maybe your professor is just messing with your head.” Messing with your head, he thought. He hadn’t used that expression in years, but here and now it seemed to fit.

“Perhaps she is. I’m Kayla,” she said as she extended her hand.

“I’m Jim.”

He wanted to say good luck with life, or don’t let others discourage you from pursuing what you feel in your gut. He wanted to give her life lessons in closing. Something that would click and get her through those dark moments to come. And they always do. Something to nurture her spirit, that enthusiasm, to see whatever goal she may have till the end. To not get discouraged by failure; to keep swimming parallel to the shore and she’d be alright. Something. In his heart, he knew dreams don’t die. They may fade slowly, become quiet till they well up at 3 a.m. filling you with regret. But they don’t die. He said nothing.

One of the joys and perils of the internet is information overload. Along with all the important stuff — be it disasters, politics, business, etc. — comes a myriad of useless information. I’d like to highlight three items last week that mean absolutely nothing to me, and I hope they mean absolutely nothing to you, too:

Coconut oil is no better nor worse for you than butter. Really? Who even uses coconut oil? I get all the coconut I need from Mounds bars and pina coladas, thank you. Remember, Julia Child loved butter and she lived to a ripe old age of 91. The trend in this case is not your friend — more like an annoying relative.

The dad bod is preferred by most women. Listen, damn it, I got my dad bod by being, well, a dad. A lot of time and expense went into this paunch, and I don’t want some millennial gamer reaping the rewards we dads worked so hard to achieve. You think eating chips on a couch while watching the same damn Disney movie with your kid for the seventeenth time is easy? And let’s face it, if you have a dad bod at twenty-two, chances are you’ll look more like Michael Moore than Leonardo DiCaprio at fifty-two.

If you die alone in a house with animals, your dog is the most likely candidate to eat you. The study found dogs left indoors with their dead owners will begin eating the face, even when other food is available. It starts with a little licking, proceeds with a nibble or two, and the next thing you know your nose is a human canape. Yet, dogs in the wild will go straight for the stomach for that nutritious organ meat. Man’s best friend my ass.

How often has a friend come up to you and said, “Wow! What a great story. You should write a book.” Or maybe, as your probing mind throws question after question at that same friend about his night out that his wife knew nothing about because she thought he was working late to make up for the day he took off to get a colonoscopy, which he actually didn’t get because he spent the afternoon canoodling with a young woman he met on Tinder, he would turn and ask, “What’re you writing a book?” You see, you are an author, and everyone knows it but you. So, isn’t it about time to sit yourself down — or stand if you think it will add a few years to your life since sitting is the new cholesterol, although standing for long periods in one spot can produce pooling of blood around the ankles, forcing you to wear support hose years before you should — and start banging away at those keys in search of your inner Hemmingway? Well, it’s easier than you think. Simply follow these 10 simple steps and you, too, can be a published author giving your book away for $.99 on Amazon, after promoting it at $0 for your kid’s entire K to 5 schooling, and having your cousin’s neighbor — whose daughter is studying graphic arts — edit your book for free since he was assistant editor of his high school newspaper in junior year, as long as you compensate his daughter for her cover design to the tune of $975 in cash and a Chipolte gift card. So, here goes:

Come up with a big idea. Something like the “for Dummies” theme, or maybe O’Reilly’s “Killing” saga, or Michener’s “Hawaii,” but don’t write about Hawaii because it’ll cost you a fortune to research, and he pretty much hit that book out of the park. The idea is, you don’t want to be a one-hit wonder like that Jay McInerney fellow, so think series. Think of something.

Okay, you have a format. Now, come up with a subject matter and story that will grab readers from the very first sentence, keeping them glued to your book till the very last word. That should be easy.

Now you have a theme, you pretty much have a storyline, and somewhere along the way, you’ll develop your own style. The hard part is over.

Make tea.

I would say to develop an outline so there’s coherent flow and development of characters, but that would take a lot of time. And god knows, you probably already have a plot line picked out for your second book. If it’s incoherent and rambling with absolutely no empathy for your main characters, well, that’s just your style. Even Hemmingway was misunderstood for his simplcity, till he shot himself in the head. Only then was he truly appreciated, but there’s no reason to take it that far — not at this point anyway. Not yet.

Get a cookie, a cracker — something. It would have been better if you thought about that when you made your tea, but true artists such as yourself gets so wrapped up in their work, they often forget to eat.

Eat lunch.

Okay, so you have a beginning, a middle, and now you have to come up with an ending. Oh, did I mention plot? The ending should have something to do with the plot, unless you’d like to pull an O’Henry — or Cheever for that matter — and shock the crap out of them. Great! You’re book’s finished.

Now it’s time for you to promote it. I say you because I’m assuming your novel was not picked up by a major publishing house. My best advice — start a blog. While it would be fun blogging about the overhead lighting at Costco versus Home Depot, you should really stick to your book. Give them bits and drabs, and make them want to plunk down almost a buck (half-a-day’s pay in some countries) for your hard work. What you want are eyeballs or clicks or something. You would also like them to comment on your work and follow you. Not literally, of course. Well, I guess it could be “literally” since it is a work of “literature.” You see, that’s a pun and injects a bit of humor into your tale, but I should have mentioned that sooner. “And how can I promote my blog?” you ask. Easy. Go on everyone else’s and leave comments on how much you liked their story, their pictures, their writing style, etc.. And don’t forget to follow them. (Again, I don’t mean home.) Just say nice things, and remember to compliment their “About” page. In other words, just make shit up.

Sit back and watch the glowing reviews with one eye, and your multiplying sales with the other. It’s now time to quit your day job.

It was hump day like any other Wednesday, or should I say, like every other Wednesday. No, actually, like every Wednesday when a dark cloud formed inside our office. I mean, literally, a dark cloud found its way past the reception desk, past the kitchenette, and into our work area as we were discussing an old episode of Portlandia. So there we were, interacting as officemates often do in a desperate attempt to quash the boredom, when an actual climate event was forming over Rick’s desk. Maya thought she felt a drop, but that could have been Drew’s seltzer effervescing. We call him the Carbonator, because ever since he brought that damn soda-making machine into the office, he’s been putting bubbles in everything. And to make matters worse, he belches every hour, on the hour. But getting back to the cloud, I mean, what the fuck!

You see, Rick was just let go, as in terminated, fired, released of all duties. And we all felt the loss. When our manager gave us shit, when we got a call from corporate in New York telling us to get our act together and start putting up numbers like the Cincinnati office, we would turn to Rick. At some point, he would rise and ask, “What would Jesus do?” And for that moment, you were transported out of your body to another place. He would then offer a parable about a shepherd or a fisherman and you would pause, reflect, and somehow, you felt better. But Human Resources thought he was bad for morale, and they particularly didn’t like his casual mode of dress. Chinos were OK, but sandals a no-no. We all watched as he was directed to the HR office on the fifth floor to get his final papers. No stairs, no elevator, he literally ascended through the dropped ceiling, past the emergency sprinklers, and hasn’t been seen since lunch. Tough stuff, but TGIF, and Monday’s another week.

Well, Monday came and no sign of Rick. We all felt the loss, and you could sense the stress building throughout the office. We were like lost sheep, wandering aimlessly looking for direction. Tell us what to do, Rick. Show us the way. But nothing. We all looked within, hoping to inspire his wisdom and advice. Instead, we got ball scores and a retelling of old SNL skits. And then he appeared. His name was Jon, Jon Wolf, and he was transferred from our European division. Maya was on the welcoming committee, so as Jon was directed to Rick’s desk by our manager, Maya introduced herself and pointed to our crew. We all nodded, some shrugged, then got back to the business of business. At that point, Jon rose from his desk, looked around the room, and declared, “The way you see people is the way you treat them, and the way you treat them is what they become.” Wow! And it’s only Monday, I thought, as many remained with mouths wide open. If that’s the first thing out of this guy’s mouth, good luck getting his lunch order right. But you know, there was truth in what he said. It didn’t make me feel any better, but he had a point.

Over the next several weeks, Jon took Rick’s place as our go-to guy. When our manager set an unrealistic sales goal for the month, Jon would smile and say, “I love those who yearn for the impossible.” Some team player, I thought at first, he’s sucking up to the boss. But when our manager was out of sight, he would turn and say, “Precaution is better than cure.” Interesting, he’s playing him. He is a team player. Once, when I had a particularly rough week and was all down on myself, he came to me and said, “He who does not think much of himself is much more esteemed than he imagines.” Interesting. I guess that makes me feel a bit better. But I did screw up, and probably lost a few sales because of it. I wasn’t really looking for a pat on the back. So he followed with, “Correction does much, but encouragement does more.” This guy’s like having Buddha in the office, I thought. He knows just the right thing to say.

In less than a month, Jon captured the respect of the entire office, except for Maya. Every time he would offer another witticism, Maya would roll her eyes. “What’s up?” I asked, “How come you’re not warming up to Jon?” “I was an English major with a minor in humanities,” she replied. “This idiot’s quoting Goethe word for word. Watch this. Hey Jon,” she shouted, “are you getting homesick for Germany?” She then turned towards me, and as Jon responded, she mouthed in unison, Go to foreign countries and you will get to know the good things one possesses at home. Amazing; word for word! “That’s a very wise thing you said there, Jon.” Again, she turned towards me and mouthed, Wisdom is found only in truth. I can’t believe it. Again, she knew exactly how he would respond. My bubble was burst. He’s nothing but a fraud! Now that I knew, I wished there were a way to get him to stop. As if hearing my thoughts, Jon rose, and looking straight at me, calmly replied, “Knowing is not enough; we must apply. Willing is not enough; we must do.” All of a sudden, as if struck by lightning, I channeled a voice deep from within and bellowed, “Shut the fuck up, Jon, and sit the fuck down!” And with that, I felt better. Much, much better.

Manteca, CA — A systems analyst from Manteca, California has let friends, relatives, and coworkers know he’s still concerned about that thing on his arm. Less than a week has passed since Wayne Feders noticed a small red blotch on the inside of his right forearm. He doesn’t remember banging it against anything, nor has any recollection of a spider or other small insect crawling up his arm. It could be anything, friends have remarked, leaving Wayne to scour the internet for medical advice.

“I’ve seen similar marks on Google Images,” Wayne said nervously, “and if it’s what I think it is, it ends badly. I mean, I’m hoping it’s nothing, but my mind tells me it’s either from a brown recluse spider, or a tick infected with lyme disease. I’m just waiting for symptoms to occur before I can get medical help.” When asked why he simply wouldn’t go to a doctor, he shot back, “Obamacare,” then mumbled something about copays and deductibles, and that he’d rather go to the ER and have someone else foot the bill like it used to be.

As luck would have it, his cousin Luke called out of the blue to ask him if he’d be going to their cousin Patricia’s wedding in Sacramento. Luke was a premed tech before dropping out of Las Positas Community College to pursue his passion for craft beer. “I like hoppy hops,” he shouted repeatedly during a family intervention some years later for his problem with alcohol. Clean and sober for nearly seven weeks, he was quick to give Wayne advice on the photo he’d just received via text of the blotch in question. “It could very well be a spider bite,” he surmised, “but I’m leaning toward the early stages of necrotizing fasciitis, or what’s known as flesh-eating disease.”

Needless to say, this got Wayne into a panic. He dropped the phone, started hyperventilating, and immediately dialed 911. However, in his panicked state, he had the phone upside down and actually called 611. A Verizon rep answered after recognizing the number he was calling from, and Wayne proceeded to tell her his symptoms. She told him she would suggest getting advice from a medical professional, and that he — according to her records — is allowed an upgrade on his current phone. After some small talk about upgrading to the iPhone 7 in the fall, he abruptly hung up prompting an immediate callback to take a two-minute survey on the performance of the Verizon experience he’d just had.

Out the front door, and about 30 seconds into the survey, he ran smack into his 11 year-old neighbor, Jake, knocking him to the pavement. Unscathed, Jake quickly got up as Wayne apologized profusely, showing him the red blotch and explaining how it will soon consume his arm from elbow to forefinger. Jake said the blotch looked familiar, and showed him a similar one on his left arm. “A flea bite,” he said matter of factly. “My mom said it’s been a bad year for it, and I probably got it from our dog, Misty.” Wayne stood with his mouth open as he recalled how his cat, Tinkles, hasn’t stopped scratching. Jake assured him it would go away in a few days and not to worry. Wayne felt like he’d been reborn, and promised to fix Jake’s bike the next time he got a flat. No friends, relatives, or coworkers called to check on Wayne’s status because, quite frankly, this wasn’t the first time.

So ……………… the fact of the matter is, at the end of the day, it’s a no-brainer — and that’s the bottom line. Congratulations! You’ve just wasted 8 seconds in mindless, time-filling blabber. Assuming you live to a ripe old age, you’ve just wasted 64 hours, or nearly three days in verbal spackle. We have such a beautifully descriptive language, and yet we often resort to fillers and aphorisms. Hey, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Well, I’m here to say it is broke and must be fixed.

Enter, Paleo speak. It’s time we shorten our verbal communications to grunts and moans. Think that’s a great idea? Yeah, I think it’s a wonderful idea. Wrong! When someone asks you a question, a simple nod or grunt will do. There’s no need to pat them on the back with flowery verbal affirmation just to make them feel involved and secure. Think how much work our politicians could actually get done if they answered all questions in affirmative or negative grunts. I see these men and women asked direct questions that require only a simple yes or no, and they ramble on for 10 minutes. And when they’re finished, a little voice in my head tells me they just wasted 10 minutes of my life and never answered the question. Is this what evolution sounds like?

Look, nearly a third of your life is spent in bed. Figure about six years eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner — double that if you happen to be Italian, French, or Spanish. Waiting in line? Well, if you include traffic stops, that figure could be closer to five years. How about looking for things? You lost something, you know it’s in the house and will show up at some point and yet, you can’t help trashing the place until you find it. Take off a year or two right there. So you see, grunts and moans, nods and blinks can accomplish what mere words cannot. Cut down on needless verbosity, and you’ll have more time to hunt and gather. And that’s the bottom line.